Ethan: Lord of Scandals ll-3

by Grace Burrowes

  “I will do my best to make sure you are not plagued with frightening thoughts or frightening people, Alice. I’ve found a lot of peace here at Tydings, and despite the racket and mayhem created by my sons, I think it’s still a peaceful place.”

  He made no move to shift away, to end this unlooked-for familiarity. Instead, he repeated that caress in a slow, soothing rhythm, until the pleasure of it and the warmth of his body seeped into Alice’s soul.

  Her brothers were fiercely devoted, kindhearted men who would do anything for her, and yet she hadn’t allowed them this. When Ethan Grey said he would do his best to shield her from upset, it was as if he took a vow, and the sense of sanctuary Alice felt was a steady flame in an oppressive darkness.

  Because he knew. Somehow, without being aware of any of the details of her ordeal, Ethan Grey knew what she had suffered.

  * * *

  Holding Alice Portman on a shady bench in the middle of a pleasant summer morning, Ethan felt as if he’d stepped off a cliff into some other morning in some other man’s life. Women were no more than fixtures to him. As an adolescent, they’d fascinated him; in his marriage they’d horrified him; and he counted himself lucky to be largely indifferent to sexual desire in recent years. His sisters, Lady Warne, and Leah, they were women to be admired and protected.

  As was Alice Portman, maybe more than any of the others, maybe more than all of them put together.

  Alice had been wronged somewhere in her past, egregiously wronged, and while Ethan’s mind knew that, his body was taking note of other things: Alice fit in his embrace wonderfully, like she wanted to be there, not like she had to tolerate this closeness. She had a pleasing shape, a pleasing scent, and soft, silky hair. He could feel the slow heave of her breathing against his chest.

  The confluence of protectiveness and desire was disorienting. This was how one ought to feel about a wife perhaps, or so Ethan had once thought.

  With an effort of will and the feel of Alice’s soft curves burning into his memory, Ethan decided it was a good thing for a man in his prime to feel desire. It was in accordance with the plan of God and Nature, and no reason to be alarmed. Were he honest, he’d admit that not feeling desire for the past few years had been more alarming.

  He could desire Alice Portman. This had to do not just with her steady brown eyes, well-disguised curves, and pleasant, tart scent, but also with her breathing spells and bad hip and nightmares.

  He bent his head toward her, inhaled the fragrance of flowers and lemons, and idly—in a purely theoretical way—wondered if she could desire him.

  * * *

  “Are you gentlemen trying to spook my horse?” Ethan inquired as both boys happened to pause for breath in the same moment.

  “He dragged me off!” Jeremiah shouted, a note of hysteria in his voice. “He should have let go, and he bloody wouldn’t, and he made me fall off, the sodding little bugger.”

  “You didn’t hold on!” Joshua shot back, hands fisting. “You had the mane, and I didn’t, you should have caught me, and you let me slide right off all the way down. You’re a sodding little pismire.”

  Ethan lip’s twitched, to hear the word fired off with such vehemence. He gestured to Miller, who nodded and came to stand beside Ethan, then trotted off in search of more tack when he’d gotten his instructions.

  “Gentlemen.” Ethan kept his voice quiet. “If you would kindly shut the hell up for one moment, I will tender my apologies.”

  Joshua cocked his head. “Huh?”

  “Papa is going to apologize,” Jeremiah said. “I think.”

  “He is,” Ethan said, “for not warning you Argus sometimes kicks out when schooling piaffe in hand, and for putting you on double. Has no one taught you how to fall off?”

  The boys exchanged glances when Miller appeared with a long lead line.

  “No, sir,” Jeremiah said. “I thought one didn’t want to fall.”

  “Sometimes one does,” Ethan countered. “For example, if Argus bolted with me and was heading for a low branch or a cliff, I might want to part company with him. Or if by chance I should become unseated and a fall is inevitable, then one wants to fall as safely as possible. I will demonstrate.”

  “You’re going to fall off Argus?” Joshua goggled. “On purpose?”

  “I am, but perhaps my waistcoat need not participate.” He shrugged out of it, removed the surcingle from around the horse’s belly, passed the saddle to Miller, grabbed a hank of mane, and swung up.

  “How’d he do that?” Joshua asked Jeremiah. “Argus is tall, and Papa didn’t use a mounting block or stirrups or anything.”

  Miller stood in the center of the arena, the horse circling him on the long lead, while Ethan got his seat at the trot bareback.

  “All right, you lot.” Ethan kept his eyes front, settling into the rhythm of the trot. “Spook him.”

  Miller nodded at the boys. “You heard your papa. Spook that big golden devil, and unseat your papa.”

  “How?” Jeremiah asked as Joshua bolted past him.

  “Pismire pony!” Joshua bellowed, waving his arms and charging right at the horse. Argus, true to his delicate sensibilities, shied mightily, giving Ethan the pretext he needed to slide gracefully over the horse’s shoulder. Argus came to an immediate halt, allowing Ethan to swing back on.

  “Again.” Ethan nodded at Miller. “And put some effort into it, gentlemen. Argus will go to sleep otherwise, and so shall I.”

  It took a few more tries before Jeremiah got into the spirit of the game, but Argus got into it too, spooking horrifically, only to stand stock still as soon as Ethan had decamped. Ethan demonstrated both an emergency dismount, which ideally left the rider on his feet, and the less graceful variations thereon.

  Ethan beat at the dust on his once-pristine shirt. “I think we can commend Argus on a job well done and turn our attention to your ponies.” The boys turned to see grooms holding both ponies, and neither pony sporting a saddle.

  “Up you go.” Ethan hoisted Joshua onto his pony, then Jeremiah.

  “I don’t want to do this,” Jeremiah said, staring sullenly at his pony’s mane. Ethan considered his older son and those few brave words.

  “C’mon, Jeremiah,” Joshua said. “We’ll get dirty, and we can scream like girls.”

  “He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to,” Ethan said. “My intention was to have you practice only at the halt, and if you felt up to it, at the walk.”

  “It’s stupid,” Jeremiah declared, defiant eyes raised to his father’s. “Why would you fall off on purpose if falling off is how you get hurt?”

  “Am I hurt?” Ethan asked, holding his son’s gaze.

  “No,” Jeremiah admitted. “But if Argus stepped on your head or your guts, you could be dead.”

  Death. Again.

  Ethan wanted to shake the boy but kept his voice calm. “Do you think I would do anything to intentionally put you in harm’s way?”

  Jeremiah mumbled something then looked away.

  “I beg your pardon?” Ethan’s patience was strained, but Miller had led Joshua out of earshot and was letting the boy get used to a bareback ride.

  “You hired Mr. Harold,” Jeremiah said. “He was harmful. Langstrom wasn’t much better.”

  “Mr. Harold caned Joshua. I know that, but it—”

  “More than once,” Jeremiah interrupted. “He caned him lots, and he made me watch, and he would make Joshua try to do things that were too hard just so he could cane him. He called us names and said we were the shame of the neighborhood.”

  “Ye gods…” Ethan’s physical balance wavered, as if he’d sustained a roundhouse punch or had too much cheap liquor. “What else did he say?”

  “A lot of things.” Jeremiah sighed. “Mean things. I didn’t understand all of them. He called Joshua a slutterswipe…”

  “Guttersnipe,” Ethan supplied, hauling back hard on his temper—for at whom ought he to be most angry but himself?

  “
Here’s my difficulty,” Ethan said. “I am sorry you ever had to deal with Mr. Harold. I wish I could thrash him silly. Bloody damned silly, in fact, and don’t you tattle regarding my language, Jeremiah Grey. But Harold isn’t here, and I want you to be safe when you’re riding. Knowing how to fall is part of being safe. I didn’t keep you safe from Mr. Harold, and I hate that, but I want desperately to keep you safe from a bad fall.”

  “I’ll stop riding,” Jeremiah decided, giving his pony’s neck a wistful pat.

  Ethan’s heart began to beat in a slow, hard rhythm in his chest. “You love to ride, and you’re very good at it. And then Joshua would have no one to ride with except me, and I’ll wager I am not half the fun you are.”

  Jeremiah eyed his brother. “He gallops everywhere. You’re better at swearing.”

  Ethan waited, heart thumping almost painfully, because the mysterious juvenile cogs in his son’s brain were clearly still turning.

  “I fell before,” Jeremiah said. “It hurt, but Lightning didn’t do it on purpose. There was a rabbit.”

  “Pesky beasts, rabbits. Always darting out and looking so cute while they do.” Ethan’s heart beat so hard he could feel it working… like a rabbit’s.

  “Tell me,” Jeremiah said, fiddling with his reins, “if I were going to practice falling, how would I practice it?”

  “Carefully,” Ethan said, his heart slowing a little, “and with people around who mean you only the best. You do it slowly, Jeremiah, in stages you can understand, and if you need to take a break, you insist on a break. If you were going to, that is.”

  “How would I start?”

  “You relax,” Ethan said, finding he needed to swallow a few times before going on. “You let your body relax, and you don’t fight the fall. If you’re traveling at speed, give up the reins, or you’ll just jerk your horse’s mouth before you lose them anyway. Try to slip down the horse’s side, but tuck up to protect your head. Your horse will never try to step on you, so don’t even consider it a risk.” He went on, his voice gradually becoming more even and his breathing easing up.

  “I’m ready,” Jeremiah said, clutching the reins desperately and sending his pony in a plodding circle at the walk.

  “All right.” Ethan stepped away, making sure to keep his own body and tone of voice relaxed. “When I say ‘pismire pony,’ you relax, let go of the reins, and curl down along Lightning’s side. He’ll probably stop and give you a puzzled look.”

  Jeremiah nodded, his expression suggesting he contemplated the mental equivalent of a severe birching.

  “Steady on.” Ethan took another step back. “One, two, three… pismire pony.”

  He’d nearly whispered the last two words, and Jeremiah tipped, slipped, and tumbled off his pony’s back. The pony halted, swished his tail, and sniffed at the little boy in the dirt. Ethan crouched down and met Jeremiah’s eyes.

  “You did it. I’m proud of you.” He wanted to damn cry he was so proud.

  “I did it.” Jeremiah sat up and was promptly pulled into his father’s arms. Wordlessly, Ethan hugged him—really, really hugged him. This wasn’t a sneaky hint of a hug in the midst of a picnic hubbub. It wasn’t a surreptitious, teasing hug while choosing from the breakfast buffet. This couldn’t be construed as anything but a hug, plain, heartfelt, and sincere.

  “I did it.” Jeremiah said again, closing his eyes and laying his head on his father’s shoulder. “I fell off.”

  “Splendidly,” Ethan assured him. The pony spoiled the moment, pony fashion, by butting Ethan’s shoulder, nearly pushing man and boy onto their arses in the dirt.

  “Wretched beast,” Ethan murmured, still holding his son. “Shall we see how your brother fares?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Jeremiah said as Ethan set him on his feet. “He’s little.”

  “I know what you mean. He seems to bounce through life.”

  “Is that bad?” Jeremiah watched as, at the halt, Joshua slid off his pony.

  “No,” Ethan said, thinking of another little brother who seemed to bounce through life. “But he didn’t bounce just then, did he?”

  “No.” Jeremiah grinned. “You don’t bounce either.”

  “And neither do you, Jeremiah.” Ethan smiled back. “But you fall beautifully.”

  * * *

  Ethan sent his sons up to the house, and off they went at a dead run. He turned toward the stables, intent on retrieving his waistcoat, knowing that hours of ledgers and correspondence awaited him in the library.

  A cheering thought intruded: he and Alice had never quite gotten around to a discussion of the boys’ curriculum.

  And then the cheering thought was interrupted by the sight of a groom who had Joshua’s pony, Thunder, trailing on a lead behind him. Thunder was rearing and propping, and for good cause. The groom was using the end of the leather lead shank to whack at the pony’s neck and shoulders.

  “Step on me, will ye?” the man shouted. “I’ll show ye who ye can step on, ye hairy little shite. No damned manners, and getting fussed all day has ye spoilt rotten. The knacker would love to take a knife to yer tough little hide.”

  “Hold,” Ethan said quite loudly as he approached the man, “and I do mean now.”

  The man nodded. “G’day to ye, guv. Little monster thought to stomp me good.”

  The little monster was still kiting around on the end of his lead line, eyes rolling at the potential new threat Ethan posed.

  “Give him to me.” Ethan held out a hand for the lead shank, keeping his voice quiet. “When did he attempt this violence?”

  The man gestured to the stables, fifty yards distant. “In the barn. Just up and tromped on me boot.”

  Sturdy, if worn, heavy boots, Ethan noted. And the groom himself had the thick, muscular physique and dusty, worn attire of a typical plowboy.

  Thunder, by contrast, was a Welsh pony, an elegant little equine standing about twelve hands. He was small enough to work the mines, about as small as a riding mount could be, even for a child.

  “So you thought to discipline him here.” Ethan stroked a hand down the pony’s coarse mane. “To impress upon him the error of his ways, what, a quarter mile and ten minutes after the crime?”

  “He’s stubborn, that one.” The groom eyed the pony balefully. “Takes a firm hand.”

  Miller came puffing out from the stables, just as Ethan would have bellowed for him.

  “Problem, Mr. Grey?” Miller asked, using deferential address before an inferior.

  “Did Thunder act up in the barn? Perhaps misbehave in hand or take advantage of Mr. Thatcher here?”

  “Thunder?” Miller snorted and glanced at the now-quiet pony. “That beast doesn’t know how to misbehave, unless it’s to snitch a mouthful of grass. He dodged a little when a cat jumped up the ladder beside him, but it weren’t mischief.”

  “A misunderstanding then,” Ethan said. “Easily explained. Miller, you will see Thunder to his paddock, please?” Ethan gave the pony a final pat and passed the lead shank to Miller.

  Thunder—a good boy of the equine persuasion—followed docilely.

  “Mr. Thatcher.” Ethan eyed the man coolly. “I trust Miller’s judgment more than my own when it comes to horses. What have you to say for yourself?”

  “Miller weren’t leading the damned pony.” Thatcher’s chest heaved with indignation. “Them’s dangerous, ponies are. Them’s quick and mean and belongs in the mines with both eyes put out.”

  “How did you come to work in the stables?”

  “Came to help with the last harvest in the fall,” Thatcher said. “Miller took sick in the winter. I stayed on.”

  And Ethan had trusted Miller to sort out the bad apples that had come in with the harvest.

  “Stay away from the ponies, Thatcher. Another such misunderstanding, and I will turn you off. Ponies can easily be made mean, but that pony belongs to my son and is none of yours to make mistakes with. Do we understand each other?”

  Clearly, Etha
n was making an enemy. The man’s eyes narrowed, his expression closed, and his gaze went to where Miller was turning the pony out with Lightning, who bucked and cantered up to his mate in welcome.

  “I understand ye clear enough.” In a cavalier display of rudeness, Thatcher spat his words, turned his back on his employer, and stomped off. Which confirmed to Ethan he should have fired the man, plain and simple. He’d have Miller find a pretext for doing same, but leave it in his stable master’s hands. Some of the joy of the morning was tarnished, but not all.

  He could find Alice and interrogate her regarding Latin primers and whatever else she’d been prosing on about before more important matters had come under discussion.

  He smiled as he turned back toward the house, but paused before the peach tree, not intending to grab a snack but merely to assess the ripening crop. As he stood in the tree’s shade, he spied Alice walking hand in hand with a tall, dark-haired man in riding attire. It wasn’t anybody Ethan recognized, and Alice was a fair distance from the house. As he debated intruding—a gentleman did not spy—Alice stopped and wrapped her arms around the man, holding him in a fiercely close embrace.

  Seven

  Ethan left his chambers for the lower floors of the house, his toilet repaired sufficiently for the noonday meal.

  His mood, however, was not in good repair at all. He caught the eye of the footman at the end of the corridor. Tall, blond, handsome—like Nick, of course. “It’s Davey, isn’t it?”

  The fellow smiled, revealing surprisingly good teeth. “That would be me, Mr. Grey.”

  “Be warned. The boys like you.” Ethan hurried off, stomach growling, mood deteriorating apace. If Alice Portman had a gentleman caller, she would in nowise be hanging about Tydings for even her probationary period. No woman in her right mind chose governessing over matrimony.

  Where was Ethan supposed to find another governess, and how was he supposed to explain it to the boys?

  “Mr. Grey?” Mrs. Buxton stopped him at the foot of the steps. “We’ve set lunch in the dining room. Miss Portman said there’s to be a gentleman for company. She’s in the family parlor with the gentleman, and she asked the boys to join the adults at table.”